


Thomas

by GotTea



Series: Family Series [5]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Series, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: A fine, persistent drizzle is falling from the sullenly grey sky and Boyd scowls and hunches his shoulders inside his thick winter coat as he rushes forwards, in a hurry to be out of the cold. It’s far too early in the day to be dealing with this. By rights, the early hour, the frigid temperature and the disgraceful weather should be more than enough to put him in a foul mood. Today, though, these factors are simply icing on the cake. Happy Birthday, Joodiff. :) xx
Relationships: Peter Boyd/Grace Foley
Series: Family Series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/660083
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



**Thomas**

* * *

A fine, persistent drizzle is falling from the sullenly grey sky and Boyd scowls and hunches his shoulders inside his thick winter coat as he rushes forwards, in a hurry to be out of the cold. It’s far too early in the day to be dealing with this. By rights, the early hour, the frigid temperature and the disgraceful weather should be more than enough to put him in a foul mood. Today, though, these factors are simply icing on the cake.

Oh yes.

For this morning, a _Saturday morning_ , no less, the alarm clock went off at a disgustingly, abusively early hour, summoning him unceremoniously into wakefulness and dragging him abruptly from the really rather erotic realm of a particularly heated dream about none other than his bedfellow, and in that dream she was…

A car blasts past down the busy street, throwing up a spray of water and making Boyd snarl as he leaps aside to avoid becoming even more drenched. Only just refraining from bellowing obscenities at the fleeing driver, he bumps his shoulder lightly against a brick wall and seethes.

This is all his fault, he just had to make a detour to find exactly what he was looking for. Muttering under his breath, he finally spots the oversized hellhole of a building he is aiming for and makes a beeline for its garishly decorated front doors.

No, he decides, as he enters, dodging a stream of other early-risers who are, typically, lost in their own world and consequently annoyingly underfoot, this is all _her_ fault.

After last weekend’s disastrous trip out with his father to sort his Christmas shopping, Grace decided that in order to avoid any last-minute stress and associated tantrums, they – and by that he’s absolutely sure she meant _he_ – were going to be organised. Consequently, she then handed him a sheet of plain paper and a pen and told him to make a list of everyone he needed to buy Christmas presents for, _and_ what to buy for them.

When he protested, she simply gave him that still, penetrating gaze that he has quickly learned means he really, really doesn’t want to argue with her. And so he sat and grumbled about pointless traditions and expensive annoyances while she left him well enough alone and eventually he produced the dreaded list, minus, of course, her. _That_ thorny problem he’s been silently mulling over for days. In fact, it’s that exact problem that had him trudging through the cold and the rain, having made a brisk, long trek to a very particular shop well out of the way of the modern monstrosity of attempted architecture where he is supposed to be completing his task.

Boyd checks his watch; he’s got an hour and forty-five minutes before it’s time to regroup with the woman who was so appallingly awake and enthusiastic about this morning’s torturous activity as they got dressed in the gloomy darkness of another sunless winter day.

Grace.

Despite how cold and damp he is, he still feels a wry smile wanting to bubble up as he thinks of the soft parting kiss she gave him when they arrived, and the promise of, “Trust me, Peter, when Christmas is suddenly upon us in a few short weeks’ time you’ll be very glad I made you sort all this out at the beginning of the month. And I will be very glad you aren’t stomping about in a rage because you suddenly have so much to do and no time to do it in.” And then she had smiled sunnily up at him and disappeared off into the crowds, intent on ticking off each and every item on her list.

In his pocket is his own list and, finally inside in the warm and dry, he extracts it and has a brief peruse, then sets off with a purpose towards the first shop he needs, doing his best not to snap at the irritating push of humanity swarming all around him. It would be so much worse, he knows, doing this later in the day, and he doesn’t even want to think about what it would be like with the big day just around the corner. She is right, even if he doesn’t like it.

She usually is.

Not that he would ever admit that. Especially to her.

Gradually, the bag in his hand gets heavier and heavier as he locates and purchases the items on his list. Finally, there’s only a couple left, which can be bought in the same place. Destination in mind, he makes his way with quick, long strides, determined to be finished. The centre is swarming with people now, and somewhere nearby a child is screaming with unholy enthusiasm, the decibel level grating on Boyd’s already fraying nerves. Clenching his teeth, he squares his shoulders and pushes forward, his last stop looming ahead of him. The relief of moving through the doorway and out of reach of the incessant shrieking is short lived, however, as this shop contains a woman towing along more children than he can easily count, given that they are running around like sugar-hyped wild things.

Growling under his breath, he ploughs through the melee and quickly selects what he is after before striding to the queue. The children are now running madly through the posts containing those waiting to pay and Boyd bites back a sharp word as one gets just a little too close, jostling his shopping bag. This will all be over soon, he tells himself grimly. And worth it. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s slowly learning that listening to Grace when it comes to matters like this is… sensible.

Hell, maybe he’s even looking forward to the festivities this year, given that he has someone to enjoy them with.

He is. He knows he is.

He’s a man, and a man who is head over heels in love.

Now halfway to the café he and Grace are supposed to be meeting at, Boyd ponders the likelihood of his woman being late. Very likely, he decides. She’s incredibly good at losing track of time, and he’s sure given the length of her own list, that’s probably exactly what has happened. Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t get a table and sequester himself safely in a corner to wait in peace with a coffee and a scowl for anyone who dares to get too near.

A large display to his left catches his eye and Boyd pauses; with a resigned sigh he hurries through the doorway, quickly scanning signs for the menswear section. He can’t deny that he needs new underwear, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to make sure he has a steady supply of clean and presentable trunks given the amount of time he is spending away from his own home, or occupied whilst in it…

For a moment he is utterly distracted, his mind transporting him far away from this noisy, bustling shop to the comfort of luxuriously soft sheets and the warm, smooth skin of his companion…

And then the thought of being caught in something ragged or threadbare by Grace distracts him and brings him back to the task at hand, for there will undoubtedly be an inordinate amount of piss-taking if he doesn’t do something about his situation, and soon.

His preferred brand located, he scans the shelves, finding his style of choice. There’s an offer on, and he does some quick mental arithmetic to decide how many boxes he needs, given the fact that, despite having something of a penchant for liking to look good, he has in fact ignored his underwear drawer for a while now. Socks too, he realises, gloomily.

It’s been a long, hard eighteen months.

Biting back a storm of profanity wanting to break free, he grabs a basket from a nearby stack, unceremoniously chucks the boxes of trunks into them, and stalks off to the socks. He hates baskets. Just loathes them. Unwieldy, perfect for catching on displays or unsuspecting joints and bones, and usually sticky from other people’s unhygienic hands. Disgusting. But on this occasion, he just can’t quite hold on to everything given all the bloody stuff he has already acquired and thus has to lug about with him.

How much longer until he is safely ensconced back in his large and comfortable home with the woman he loves?

Socks. Socks.

Just find some bloody socks and get out of here, he tells himself. 

Rounding a freestanding display that has clearly unwisely – and probably unlawfully – been jammed in as an afterthought, Boyd sees, too late, another man heading his way. The man is clearly in a hurry, and isn’t looking where he is going. The two collide heavily, bags becoming entangled, shoulders smacking painfully together, and the damn basket tumbles out of his grip and crashes to the ground, spilling its contents as it goes.

A snarl erupts from his chest as a white-hot flash of pain explodes inside the same shoulder that struck the wall earlier. The other man, though clearly older, is built like a brick shithouse. Grinding his teeth, Boyd plants his feet and holds his balance. To his inner pleasure, the other man staggers and has to step quickly to stay on his feet, stumbling a couple of steps before regaining his centre of gravity.

“Watch it, will you?” The snappish aside is delivered in accompaniment with a furrowed brow and a steely glare. A chaotic mess of short, disorderly grey hair, dark brown eyes and the kind of heavy muscle that comes from a lifetime of hard physical work, along with faded blue jeans, a scruffy black jumper and a thick, brightly coloured stripy scarf combines for a slightly eccentric appearance.

Boyd doesn’t move, feels his own scowl settle into his features. “I’m not the one who wasn’t looking where they were going,” he retorts.

For a few dangerous seconds it all has the potential to escalate, but then the other man seems to concede, offering a short nod. “You’re right,” he acknowledges, voice deep and slow. “I’m on a mission for the missus.” He speaks as though every word costs him dearly. Still, he gives a little more of an explanation in, “I hate shopping – I was trying to hurry.”

All the tension evaporating, Boyd bends to retrieve his basket. “You and me both,” he sighs, looking for his fallen items.

“Here,” the other man scrambles for the debris around them, puts Boyd’s items back into his basket for him. “Good brand,” he grunts, returning the last pack of trunks.

Not bashful in the least, Boyd inclines his head in agreement.

“Sorry,” the man tells him, and for a moment Boyd has the odd notion that he’s barely accustomed to talking. But then he is gone.

Rotating his sore shoulder slightly, Boyd stares after him, shaking his head at the inconvenience, and the absurdity of the other man. What an incredibly peculiar fellow.

Socks, he tells himself firmly. Just get some bloody socks, pay for this lot, and then get the hell out of here. It’s a good plan, a simple plan. Easy to execute. With renewed vigour, he strides out for the socks.

Somewhere behind him another child starts to scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Patience well and truly frayed, Boyd stalks out of the shop like an offended lion, bristling at all the small irritations that have mounted up and up. He wants to leave, and leave now. His Christmas shopping may be done bar one last item, but it was absolutely not worth giving up his relaxing morning in bed. The enticing laughter and the wicked smirk of the woman he loves, his body moving over hers, pleasure filling his veins…

With an exasperated mutter, he shakes his head, dragging himself back to the here and now. Today, it seems, he has a one-track mind.

The heavy bags bump against his thigh _again_ – yet another annoyance – and it’s only his incredibly quick reflexes that allow him to lunge sideways and dodge a hoody-clad teenager on a skateboard who comes flying towards him, angry shouts echoing in his wake. For a moment he’s tempted to drag the youngster from his wheels and read him the Riot Act about such foolish behaviour inside a packed shopping centre, but then a security guard appears from nowhere and does the job for him.

Vindicated, and smiling a touch savagely for it, Boyd settles for a bellowing a few choice words towards the young man who is now being bodily towed away by the guard, and then he keeps walking, his steps a tad lighter thanks to this small measure of justice.

He will be grateful, just like she predicted. Especially when he’s enjoying his December nights sheltered inside with her, eating mince pies and rolling his eyes at her determination to drag him kicking and screaming into her festive cheer.

But first he has to wrap this lot. Idly, he wonders what he would have to do to convince Grace to do it for him.

Grace.

There she is, just ahead of him, standing by the entrance to the café.

Waiting patiently for him, she’s lost in her own little world. A distracted expression is wedged between her brows as she studies a piece of paper in her hand, and though her lips are not moving Boyd can easily see her mentally checking items off and reminding herself of other things she still has to do. Her scarf has come loose and is dangling perilously, in danger of fluttering to the ground and becoming lost in the sea of swarming feet. It’s just so her. Incredibly sharp in some ways, unbelievably absentminded in others. The contrast intrigues him endlessly.

Caught up in his observations of her, he conveniently forgets that he was so sure _she_ would be the one to be late back to their meeting place.

There’s a rosiness in her cheeks that he finds enticing, and when she glances up, somehow inexplicably aware that he is approaching, there is a warmth and a sparkle in her blue gaze that Boyd genuinely believes he would do just about anything for.

As he closes the final steps between them, Boyd briefly allows himself to consider the power that she wields over him. It’s nothing conscious on her part, rather simply the fact that he adores her. It happened accidentally, but he’s accepted it. Welcomed it.

Love, companionship… it’s… everything.

“Hey,” he greets her, reaching out and rescuing the scarf, securing it gently around her neck, and unashamedly using the opportunity to brush his fingers slowly against the soft skin there. If only they were behind closed doors, he thinks. And then he shakes his head ruefully because he really can’t control the direction of his thoughts, it seems. At least, he tells himself, he recognises that he really does have it bad. Admits it, even.

Grace smiles in a way she seems to reserve just for him; warm and soft and with an underlying hint of intimacy. “Hi. How did it go?”

“Everything on the list,” he confirms, tilting his head towards the bags in his hand.

“And no one died?”

Lazily, Boyd shrugs. “I don’t think so. It took all my energy just to find what I was looking for and lug all this rubbish about.”

Grace raises an eyebrow, and then smirks. “Well, we’d better do something about that. We can’t have you fading away. Not when there’s an entire Saturday afternoon stretching out ahead of us…”

What she’s deliberately leaving unsaid sends a shiver down his spine.

“You mean you’re not going to continue dragging me around this godforsaken place?” he grumbles, purely for form’s sake. Because that is what they do.

Wide blue eyes, incredibly steady. Immovable. “Have I dragged you around thus far?”

“No,” he concedes. “But you insisted I get out of bed and accompany you here in the first place. At a thoroughly obnoxious hour. On a Saturday, no less.”

“You’re not the only one who would have preferred to stay warm and cosy under the covers, you know,” is the tart reply.

“You’re the one who was so bloody cheerful about it!”

“Purely for show. How else was I supposed to get you moving?”

“Grace,” he begins, the argument he’s about to make quickly forming in his mind. He’s cut off by the small hand that is raised impatiently between them. She of the imperturbable, endlessly patient nature has clearly already had enough. Which is odd.

“Peter, contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually want to be here, and I’m also hungry and feeling just a little bit lightheaded. If we must argue, can we please shelve it for later?”

Immediately the beginnings of alarm prickle at the edge of his consciousness. Concern makes him even more blunt than usual. “What’s the matter?”

It’s a question guaranteed to cause annoyance, but he has to ask.

“I’m tired,” Grace allows. “And I hate this place, it’s too busy.”

He knows what she means; the rush and crush of humanity is overbearing. “Let’s go to Lydia’s,” he suggests, knowing the small independent café that’s not far from where he parked the car is less likely to be as loud and jam-packed as the uninspiring branch of the large chain behind them is.

The agreement is instant. “Okay.” Grace bends to pick up her bags, but Boyd swipes several, intent on easing her load. If she’s admitting that she doesn’t feel well, she really doesn’t feel well. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the last few months, it’s that Grace likes to play down anything and everything about her health that might cause even the slightest concern among her friends and family.

He feels the sideways glance more than he sees it, but she says nothing and it is that simple acquiescence that really makes the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle in fear. It costs a lot of effort not to hurry and stride out as they head for the exit, but to let her set the pace. To his relief, it’s her normal gait, the one he’s accustomed to shortening his pace for to make up for the height difference between them. Things are not that bad then. Yet.

He’s a pessimist, he knows. And a worrier.

She tells him he shouldn’t be.

But he will argue endlessly with her that after the last year how is he supposed to _not_ be?

Outside it’s stopped raining but the air is bitterly chilly. Grace turns her face up to the grey sky and breathes in deeply. Out here he can see that beneath the warmth in her cheeks, she’s gone quite pale.

Anxiety gets the better of him and the words escape before Boyd can stop them. “Are you okay?”

Instead of the carefully masked gentle annoyance that usually follows any sort of inquisition about her wellbeing these days, Grace just nods. “We didn’t have breakfast,” she reminds him. “Something to eat and a cup of tea, and I’ll be fine.”

She’s right, and he could kick himself. In the hurry to get out the door and beat the crowds, they bypassed the kitchen, something he knows was stupid. Grace can’t skip meals. It’s one of the lingering side effects from her treatment; light-headedness and a tendency to faint if her blood sugar drops too low.

He’s an idiot. A first-class idiot.

His hands are full, so he nods to the pocket of his coat closest to her. “There’s a roll of mints in there. Have one, it’ll help.”

A small, deft hand slips into the depths and pulls out the promised treat, tears back the wrapping. Offers him one first. “God’s sake, woman,” he growls. “You’re risking collapse and you want me to have one first?”

Grace rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Peter,” she retorts. “I’m not going to keel over. It _is_ getting better.”

It takes everything in him not to snap back at her. Instead, he tries, “Must we argue about this? I’m trying to help here.”

The smile is back, a little rueful this time as she slips the mints back into his pocket and then pats his arm. “I know, and I appreciate it. I just need to sit for a little while and rest.”

“I knew you were doing too much too soon!”

“ _Peter_ –”

“No, don’t you Peter me, even your mother said it last time we saw her. You’re not superwoman, you know.”

“Yes, I do, actually.” She’s indignant now, and that’s not a good sign. “I’m not doing too much, I’m just hungry.”

“If you say so,” he replies, trying to quell the squabble before it builds into something more.

“I do,” Grace insists, nettled. “And anyway, how is it that you’ve known my mother a few short months and you’re already conspiring with her, hm?”

“You’re paranoid,” he tells her. “We aren’t conspiring, we’re just concerned.”

“Well, it’s sweet, but you don’t need to be. I’ve been looking after myself quite well for years now.”

How does it always happen, Boyd asks himself as the café comes into view. How do they always end up in conflict, even if it is light-hearted? “You go and get a table,” he suggests, swiping her remaining bag from her, “and I’ll dump this lot in the car.”

For once, she agrees without question. “Okay. See you in a minute.” If he kept a diary, he’d note it down to point out to her in future.

It’s just the way they are though, and, as always, they segue from petty squabbles to practicality with total ease.

All the things they could have had, he muses. If only –

Boyd stops that thought cold and strides out for the car, concentrating on ridding himself of the annoyance of bulky carrier bags. As far as he is aware, their task for the day is complete and the long afternoon and evening is stretching out ahead of them, empty of anything and everything but what they choose. Grace made some mention of baking, but that hasn’t been confirmed, and even if that’s what she decides, he’s more than happy to sit in the kitchen with her and assist. Years of experience with her festive treats will let him willingly allow her free rein in his kitchen, despite the inevitable mess that’s sure to arise.

Life is good, he thinks, finally reaching the imposing frame of his Audi. He’s not quite sure how it happened, but neither is he prepared to dwell on that fact. The tumultuous pit of hurt and sadness and confusion in his heart has been pushed back by the warmth and kindness of the woman who has reminded him what it feels like to love, to care so deeply that sometimes, when the demons are clawing at him, all he has to do is glance up and let his eyes rest on her and that is enough.

It’s astonishing, but it is good.

Incredible, really.

Car secured, and once again contemplating all the things he wants to do to Grace when he finally manages to get her naked later, and the order in which he wants to do them, he’s making his way back through the tangle of vehicles towards the road when the same stupid young man on his skateboard from inside the shopping centre comes swooping through the gap between two vehicles that Boyd is just stepping between. The lad yelps and tries to swerve out of the way, losing his footing and lurching sideways. Reacting instantly, Boyd throws up his arms, elbows locked straight, braces his legs and catches him cold. There’s a groan at the sudden stop as the lad’s chest collides hard with Boyd’s hands, and a clatter as the skateboard vanishes beneath the cars, rolling away.

“Oh man, sorry, sorry,” is the spluttered, gasping wheeze as Boyd releases his catch after making sure he won’t topple over.

He could shout and swear again, he knows, but Christmas is approaching, the worst of his preparations are over, and, after years of denial, Grace is finally… his.

Instead, tone mild, he offers, “After what happened inside, I’d have thought you’d have learned to use that damn thing with a bit more caution.”

“I don’t…”

“You almost crashed into me in there,” Boyd points out. “Just before the security guard caught you.”

“He only caught me because some little kid ran out in front of me.” There’s no shame, just a touch of annoyance. “I was trying to help my mum out.”

This could go two ways, muses Boyd, considering his options. From his pocket, he produces his warrant card, holding it up for inspection. “Be grateful it was the security guard that caught you, not me,” he warns.

The youngster, who is all of about sixteen, swallows and nods, instantly transformed into a meek and obedient young lad. “Yes, sir.”

“Can you account to me why you’ve put so many others at risk?”

Slim shoulders momentarily hunch, then the lad exhales, the wind clearly slipping from his sails to be replaced by a rather forlorn expression. “I had an argument with my mum. She’s stuck at home because she broke both her legs in a car crash, and I was trying to get her something to say sorry.”

“I see. Did you get it?”

Miserably, the lad shakes his head. “Got booted out before I could.”

“Hm. Well, if I can offer a little sage advice...” Boyd suggests.

There’s a trace of hope in the brown eyes that peer up at him from beneath a floppy blonde fringe and the hood of the thick black sweater. “Yes?”

“Go home. Apologise. Clean the house for her and make her a cup of tea. Spend the afternoon with her.”

“But – ”

Boyd lifts a hand, cuts the young man off before he can get started. “Parents appreciate _time_ with their kids,” he explains. “And if she’s got two broken legs then she’ll probably be most grateful for some help at home, don’t you think?”

A thoughtful look spreads across a freckled face. “You’re right.”

“I know I am. Now, find that bloody contraption of yours, use it _safely_ , and go home and apologise. And tidy your room while you’re at it.”

“How’d you know about my room?”

Grinning mysteriously, Boyd taps his nose, winks and walks away. “Have a good Christmas,” he calls back over his shoulder.

Laughing to himself, he strides along the road and without even realising it, he starts to whistle cheerfully. For the first time in far too many years, he’s actually looking forward to Christmas.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s almost as if there is something inside him that’s programmed to find her as soon as he walks into a room, muses Boyd, as it takes him seconds to lay his gaze on Grace and start winding his way between the tables to get to her. He has to look away and concentrate though, because the long room is bustling with people, customers selecting food from the extensive row of cabinets, wait staff moving between tables. Twice he has to jump aside to avoid crashes, but finally he comes to a halt right behind her, hands falling onto her shoulders. Grace doesn’t even twitch.

Just like he found her instantly, she knew he was there. Shaking his head in amusement, he squeezes her shoulders lightly and then drops down into the chair beside her. Leaning over to her, he brushes his lips against her temple, the urge to kiss her overtaking common sense. The warmth in Grace’s face that he sees as she turns to him is worth it.

After so many years it’s still a novelty to him, the concept of sharing his life with someone else. Having an actual partner, as opposed to a casual companion for a few nights. Having the heat of passion, but then waking up and knowing that she’s there, that at the end of the day, even if it’s been horrendously awful, she’s still going to be there.

It’s a strange feeling, one that is taking a lot of getting used to.

Dark thoughts and doubts still lurk in the background, still flicker around the raw edges of scars that have yet to finish healing.

A slim hand covers his, the pads of her fingers stroking softly over the back of his knuckles. It’s unbelievably relaxing, that simple motion. Incredibly intimate, too.

In fact, if she –

“Hello handsome.” It’s a familiar tone, and instantly his head snaps up. Across the table from him, smirking in a way that ought to be far from seemly in a woman her age, is Iris Foley.

So much for his powers of observation.

Grinning, he reaches across the table to clasp hands with her. “Hello, Iris. How are you?”

“All the better for this lovely surprise. Grace has just been telling me she’s trying to beat some organisation into you.”

“She has, has she?” he replies, keeping his tone smooth as he glances back to his right. Amused blue eyes twinkle at him over the rim of a coffee mug.

“I might have mentioned something of the sort,” admits Grace, replacing the mug on the table. “Although beat is a strong word.”

“If you’re anything like as leave-everything-to-the-last-minute as most men, you’ll thank her on Christmas Eve when, instead of rushing about in a panic, the two of you are lounging around in front of the Christmas tree getting up to midnight mischief.”

Boyd snorts. “Please,” he tells her, “I’m a gentleman. I’d never pick the floor when I have a perfectly comfortable sofa available.”

“No sense of adventure,” sniffs Iris. 

“There’s a time and place for everything,” murmurs Grace, the mischievous glitter in her eyes swiftly hidden by her cup being raised to her lips again and her head bowing slightly as she sips.

Boyd glances at Iris, sees the laughter bubbling up inside the older woman. Then he looks at Grace, who raises her head and looks straight at him. The world falls away as everything in Boyd’s consciousness locks on to what he can see in the deep, deep blue of his lover’s gaze. Heat and sweat and passion, erotic promises that drag him in front of the open fire in his living room where there’s wine and blankets and their naked bodies pressed together, skin to skin.

He’s got it bad, he knows.

But so does she.

Grace quirks an eyebrow at him, the tiniest movement at the edge of her mouth making his heart skip a single beat as he thinks of all the possibilities that could unfold later. That he really, really hopes unfold later.

The is absolutely nothing like the heady obsession of a new romance, he tells himself. To hell with age and position in life and the tough, imposing image he’s so carefully cultivated. He loves her, she loves him, and the sex is incredible. Long may it all continue.

Fingers drumming on the table drag him back to the café and the tut tutting of the elderly woman sitting opposite him.

“When you’ve quite finished with your little… interlude… you can tell me how your delightfully grouchy father is.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not happy for Grace,” grins Boyd, turning on the charm he knows Iris likes, even if she can see right through it.

“Oh, I’m delighted for both of you,” replies Iris. “A little more happiness in the world is always a good thing. But that doesn’t mean I’m not above teasing you both about perpetually mentally stripping each other bare.”

“Naturally,” retorts Grace, her eyes lifting skywards.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady!”

“I didn’t roll my eyes, I looked upwards. There’s a difference.”

“There is not!”

Boyd resists the urge to sigh out loud. He and his father may argue, but he’s rapidly learning that Grace and her mother seem to enjoy squabbling just as much as he and Grace do. It’s equal parts amusing and irritating, mainly because it usually ends up in him being drawn into the squabble. There are more pressing matters at hand, though.

“Excuse me,” he tells Iris, “I hate to interrupt your giving Grace someone other than me to verbally spar with, but I need to ask something.”

“No,” Grace tells him before the words can leave his mouth, “I was waiting for you.”

“ _Grace_!”

“I know, I know.”

Exasperated, he runs a hand through his hair and fights down the urge to berate her for not looking after herself. “What do you want?”

“House soup and a ham sandwich.”

“Cappuccino?”

“Cappuccino.”

“Okay then. Iris?”

“Why thank you, handsome one. I’ll have the same.”

“Soup and a ham sandwich?”

“Cheese and tomato.”

“So, not the same then. Cappuccino?”

“Do I look like I’m the sort of person that drinks that new-fangled crap? I’ll have another tea. Like any other sensible person would.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, for a moment strongly reminded of the fearsome detective inspector he reported to just after passing his sergeant’s board. Out of self-preservation, perhaps, he chooses not to tell Iris that.

Getting to his feet, Boyd glances over to the counter and the queue before the sound of his name makes him look down again.

“Are you saying Peter and I aren’t sensible?” demands Grace.

Shaking his head, Boyd rests his palm against her back momentarily simply out of need for the contact before making his way off to order the food.

“Well,” he hears, as he steps away, “If you’re going to subscribe to the folly of youthful abuse of good taste, then yes, I am.”

“Mother!”

He doesn’t even need to hear Grace’s tone to imagine the look on her face as the argument continues. Feeling rather grateful, he steps out of earshot.

* * *

So much for his hopes that it would be less busy in here than the café inside the shopping centre, Boyd deliberates, taking a sip of his drink to wash down the last of his meal. It’s as if the general public had heard his comments, and subsequently all decided to descend at the same time. It’s the lunch rush, he tells himself, except it’s slightly too early for that. Oh well. The food is good, the coffee warming, and Grace looks much better.

Mentally he kicks himself one last time for his stupid oversight, but then his attention is diverted by the two women with him and their antics. He needs to concentrate, he knows, because if Grace keeps him on his toes, that’s nothing compared to what she and her likeminded mother can do. If he’s not careful, he’ll easily find himself in hot water and at the mercy of two ladies who don’t even have to speak to each other to communicate.

It's one of the many mysteries of women. Mothers and daughters, and the obscure way they so often seem to understand each other so well. Not all of them, though. He vividly remembers the loud and extraordinarily long arguments his own mother and sister used to get into. Both hot tempered and quicker to rile than to see rationality. Far more so than he’s ever been. And he knows that’s saying something.

The battles of his youth were fought with his father. He was always closer to his mother, just like Juliet has always been a daddy’s girl.

It’s strange, Boyd thinks, how things, how people, turn out. It’s fascinating too. Could provide endless scope for analysis and observation, if he was so inclined.

Perhaps that’s what drew Grace into the world of psychology.

He’ll ask her, one day.

Conversation ebbs and flows, and eventually circles back to what brought them to their current location.

Answering her daughter’s question, Iris says, “I needed a few things, so I asked Thomas to bring me. He was coming to look at the back door anyway – the latch is sticking again.”

“Ah, trying to get ahead with your Christmas shopping, eh?” Boyd can’t resist a little teasing.

Iris fixes him with a beady-eyed stare. “Young man, do you seriously think I would be so disorganised as to leave my Christmas shopping until December?”

It’s an effort not to laugh, but Boyd manages to keep a straight face. Responds with an earnest, “Absolutely not. I would never imply such a thing. I’m fully aware that Grace didn’t develop her ability to be prepared for anything all by herself.”

“Be careful, there. You’re about to go too far with that damage control, boy.”

“Damn,” sighs Boyd, “and there I was thinking I had it down to an art form…”

Beside him, Grace covers a snort of laughter with her hand. He sees it, though, and it takes everything in him not to grin.

Iris sees it, too.

“Oh yes, you can laugh,” she admonishes her youngest child, poking a finger at Grace.

A witty comeback on the tip of his tongue, Boyd pauses when a blast of icy air wafts across the room as the door opens and closes.

“Dear God,” he growls, suppressing a shiver. “The weather’s gone from bad to bloody atrocious overnight!”

Grace nods, pulling her scarf a little tighter around her neck. Iris stretches out her arm across the table towards him, palm open. “That’ll be a pound, please.”

Crossing his arms, Boyd raises an eyebrow. “I see,” he nods slowly, feigning thoughtfulness. “Well, how about we call it quits since you owe one for your description of our coffee?”

Predictably, it descends into a tiff between the pair of them, one which shows no sign of abating easily. It’s just far too much fun, and Boyd has always been partial to a bit of mischief.

But then it all comes to a quick end when the brick shithouse of a man from earlier stops beside the table and stares down at them, his brown eyes falling on Boyd and fixing there. The man stands and glares, towering over them all as he does so, and as Boyd appraises the fellow for the second time that morning, he feels a tiny hint of... something... at the sheer size of him.

It’s not fear, by any stretch of the imagination, but it is something.

The man is not only tall – easily six foot three – but he’s just... incredibly solid. That’s the only way Boyd can describe it. He looks like a wall. A very thick, immovable brick wall.

He’s not young, though. Always good at guessing ages, Boyd puts him at ten to eleven years older than that he himself is.

He looks like an owl. The thought strikes Boyd quite suddenly, and completely out of the blue. A ridiculously large owl, but an owl nonetheless. It’s the way the other man moves, he realises. Slow and smooth, every motion controlled and deliberate. Very steady, very quiet. The messy, spiky hair doesn’t help either – the random tufts sticking up strongly reminding him of a long-eared owl he once held at an outdoor experience many, many moons ago.

The eyes seem half open, sleepy even, as they lock on him and stay there, considering him steadily. Boyd doesn’t flinch under that stare, doesn’t do anything but hold it and gaze back, his expression not giving anything away. It’s a habit born of spending his entire adult life as a police officer, of keeping his cards close to his chest to get precisely what he wanted in the competitive world of law enforcement.

In the end it is Grace who breaks through his contemplation, as she stands up and reaches out to the male. “Thomas,” she says, and there is delight and warmth in her tone. She virtually disappears into the man’s arms as he reaches down and hugs her tightly.

So, this is Thomas Foley then, another of her brothers. Well, Boyd muses, a couple of bruises is probably a better introduction than making an arrest.

Grace reappears and then the table is suddenly crowded as Thomas takes up the remaining chair and the entire side of the small wooden square.

“Peter, Thomas. Thomas, Peter,” introduces Iris, a sudden and entirely wicked gleam in her eyes as she leans back and folds her arms, watching the two men with intense speculation. For a moment, nothing happens.

“More drinks,” the older lady suddenly declares, her head turning to look pointedly at her daughter.

For a moment there is a kind of standoff, and it’s unclear who will yield first. Then, “I’ll get them, shall I?” Grace volunteers, getting to her feet, and, rather admirably, reckons Boyd, avoiding rolling her eyes again.

“Why, thank you darling, that’d be lovely.”

Grace shakes her head, keeps her tone dry as she asks, “Same again?”

The ploy is so deliberate that Boyd finds he can’t wait to see what he’s about to be subjected to.

His lover drops a hand to his shoulder for balance as she bends and reaches for her purse, her fingers squeezing gently in a touch of solidarity when she straightens again. He wonders briefly if she is aware that her actions mirror his from earlier. If she has any idea how in-tune they appear to be becoming. It gives him a hint of warmth in his chest, and a flash of curiosity.

It’s an interesting thought, but he puts it aside to ponder later.

They both know that her mother will simply push on until she gets whatever antics she has in mind out of her system. It’s best to just roll with it and enjoy whatever amusement unfolds.

He’d never admit it to her, but Boyd has a real soft spot for Iris, and an admiration for her bulldozer attitude. Still, with Grace wandering away to the queue that has grown substantially in the last few minutes, he’s suddenly very aware that it’s now two against one rather than a level playing field.

And quite who the two and the one are, he’s not entirely sure.


	4. Chapter 4

Silence waits for them as Grace leaves, no one seemingly wanting to be the first to speak. Boyd waits. He’s capable of being extraordinarily patient when he needs to be, though he rarely advertises that fact. If Iris wants to play games, he will let her.

It seems Thomas is of the same opinion, for he continues to sit and stare, not a single sound leaving his lips. He has brown eyes, Boyd realises. He’s already noted that small detail, but it’s not until he thinks about it that it actually hits him. A flash of memory supplies him with an image of an enraged man swinging a punch. Brown eyes. Not the blue that Grace and Iris share. Interesting.

Medium brown, very clear. Still surveying the man in front of him, Boyd decides that they make him look even more like an owl.

The wordlessness stretches out until Boyd begins to wonder who will break first. It won’t be him, that he’s certain of. He’s far too practiced at this game after decades of letting the tension build until the suspect breaks and begins sealing their own fate with admissions. He doubts it will be Thomas, either, for the newcomer seems far too self-contained to crack under the pressure. No, it has to be Iris, for all her troublesome meddling and sly games, she’s far to nosy to remain silent for long.

He’s right.

After an almost eerie couple of minutes in which he and Thomas steadily refuse to yield and simply examine one another from across the table, Iris lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I’ll make the introductions then, shall I?” she grumbles, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “Peter, this is my second son, Thomas. Thomas, this is Superintendent Peter Boyd, Grace’s new _partner_.”

The expression in those steady brown eyes does not change, though they narrow slightly as they remain fixed on him, Boyd notes. Exactly as Iris intended with her heavy emphasis on that one particular word, he’s sure.

Still, he’s not about to yield to her without a fight.

“Detective Superintendent,” he corrects, pedantically.

“Oh yes, yes, sorry,” says the older woman casually, though she is not in the slightest bit remorseful. In fact, there’s a decidedly wicked hint of the devil in her face as she continues, “Peter is the head of the unit Grace works for,” she explains to her son. “The two of them have been working together for such a long time now. Years, even. And they’ve been making eyes at each other for years, too.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake! _Really_?

He should’ve known. The old woman just cannot be trusted.

“Iris,” sighs Boyd, trying to prevent this from getting worse.

He’s too late.

“Fortunately, they _finally_ saw sense, got their act together, and fell into bed with one another.” There is unmitigated glee in his tormentor’s face.

He’s doomed. The thought flashes quickly and gloomily through Boyd’s mind. Jack was easy to handle, but this guy… He’s no lightweight and he can more than hold his own in a fight after a lifetime of experience and with a lot of tricks in his pocket, but the odds are not in his favour here if Thomas decides to take offence in the same way his older brother did.

The bloke is huge.

Fortunately, Thomas does not budge. He doesn’t even twitch. The only trace of his acknowledgement of his mother’s words is another very slight hint of his eyes narrowing as he continues to hold Boyd under observation.

It should be a relief, but Boyd is starting to feel a little unnerved by the other man’s persistent silence. And the way he seems to do all his talking with his eyes. It’s just… weird. Something should have been said by now – they’ve gone beyond the sizing each other up stage, and the game of playing along with Iris and her medalling. But he’s at a loss, has no idea what to say.

“It was about damn time, too,” continues Iris, with the air of someone who is simply casually gossiping and not in the slightest bit aware that she might just be potentially stirring up a serious amount of trouble.

Quite how she’s managing to maintain such feigned obliviousness, he hasn’t got a clue. Her acting skills are simply superb.

“Do you know, Thomas,” begins Iris, and Boyd finds himself strongly suspecting that the next words out of her mouth are going to leave him wanting to strangle her. “I watched and I listened from afar for _years_ while your sister let slip this and that little by little about Handsome One here. It nearly drove me mad! You’ve absolutely no idea how frustrating it was to see them dancing about being idiots.”

That brown-eyed gaze has turned stony now, and the chaotic eyebrows have drawn down in a flinty glare.

He’s going to kill her. He really is. And then he’s going to have to figure out how to explain himself to Grace, who is not going to be happy with the loss of her dear mother and co-conspirator.

Seemingly still utterly oblivious to the simmering tension in the two men flanking her, Iris keeps going. “But of course, people can only live in that kind of suspense for so long, and now, well, they can’t keep their hands off each other.”

It’s either stupidity, or foolish masculine pride, that makes him suddenly say, “Well, she’s a very beautiful woman,” Boyd is sure. Nothing else could have made him open his mouth in such an unwise manner at such a delicate moment, he’s positive. Either that, or it’s provocation.

Yeah, he likes the sound of that.

Looking up, he holds back a flinch, but only just.

If looks could kill, he’d be dead. Thomas’ face…

He’s always, always been incredibly good at opening his mouth at precisely the wrong moment, in precisely the wrong way. His mother always said so. His sister still does.

Fuck.

Iris, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to have an apoplexy. From glee.

There’s got to be a way he can salvage this, surely? He’s not a bumbling teenager, he’s a man of experience. A highly skilled and experienced detective, one who is used to working with serial killers, psychopaths and disturbingly intelligent, organised criminals. Not to mention the fact that he’s a born leader, in charge of a specialist unit and with a host of other management responsibilities as well.

Nothing happens. No thought, or witty retort comes to him. Not even one of those dreadfully dull but polite phrases for polite company that are a legacy of his boarding school education.

No, on this occasion he’s well and truly put his foot in it and there just doesn’t seem to be any path in any direction out of the quagmire he’s now floundering in.

Well, bollocks.

Boyd has ever been a quitter, though. And as his tormentor watches him and cackles inwardly, he continues to search his mind for something, _anything_ , to say that might shift the other chap’s mind away from the fact that he’s sleeping with his little sister.

Iris saves him. Boyd highly doubts that she’s in the slightest bit bothered by the undertones of masculine stubbornness, or that she’s stopped enjoying his level of discomfort, but rather that she has succumbed to the urge to keep talking.

“Thomas used to be a builder,” she informs him, neatly changing the subject entirely. “Had his own company. Still does, in fact, but his sons run it now. Benny and Paul. Lovely boys. Thomas is retired.”

“My sister’s ex was a builder,” Boyd comments, aware how inane it sounds. “He ran off with his boss’s secretary when he realised he didn’t like children.”

Iris raises an eyebrow. “Classy.”

“Quite,” snorts Boyd. “I’ve never understood what she saw in him. He was a weasel of a man. Terrible builder, too.”

Too late, it occurs to him that his words might be taken badly, as though he’s just tried to imply something about builders. Staring at the table top, Boyd wonders if there is any possible way for him to make a sudden, immediate exit from this situation. Surely, surely one genuinely well-intentioned man shouldn’t be able to put his foot in it so much in such a short space of time. Not with people that it really matters with.

Abject doom settling round his shoulders, Boyd looks up, expecting the worst.

Instead, though, Thomas just scowls and then, unbelievably, opens him mouth.

“Stupid man,” he mutters. “Family is everything.”

The strange prickle at the nape of Boyd’s neck is back. It’s not alarming, and he’s not in the slightest bit worried. It’s just… uncomfortable.

The words are loaded with meaning. Multiple meanings.

“It is,” agrees Boyd, his eyes drifting over to the queue to find Grace is just about to leave the till with a heavily laden tray. It’s an unmissable opportunity.

“Excuse me,” he tells his companions, rising to his feet and striding over to help. It breaks the awkwardness of the moment for him, and gives him a few precious seconds alone with Grace. She smiles affectionately at him as he lifts the tray and she tucks her change into her purse.

“Thank you.” They both know she could manage on her own, but the tray is unwieldy, it’s overloaded, and gallantry is an integral part of who he is. That, and he’s not entirely sure how he could have continued to sit in such awkward silence.

Their fingers brush together as he turns, and it’s that tiny bit of contact that means absolutely everything.

The warmth of her skin, the fizzing sensation that travels across his hand and up his arm. The reassurance of just being with her, near her.

“I love you,” he tells her, out of the blue.

She laughs, the sound easy and sincere. “Oh dear, has it been that bad?”

Twisting so his back is to the table, Boyd gives her a look. Leans down and murmurs in her ear, “Your mother…”

“Is a character?” Grace supplies.

“You can say that again,” he tells her, shaking his head with feeling. Nodding in the direction of the table he asks, “Shall we?”

“We shall,” agrees Grace, and it’s only then that he sees that innate impishness that he generally absolutely adores peeking out from behind her steady expression.

“Oh God,” he groans, as it dawns on him that she might just decide to join her mother’s side.

Slim fingers find his ribs and tickle him lightly. Clenching his teeth and muscles he stops dead and tries to ignore the assault, his attention locked on not spilling the contents of the tray. “Not fair,” he grinds out. “See if I come and help you next time.”

More laughter. At his expense, naturally.

“Sorry, sorry. It was too good an opportunity to miss.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he growls. “Just you wait…”

There’s a lot of speculation and expectation in the way she says, “Oh, I will…”

Damn. How does she do this to him?

“Come on,” he sighs. “Your mother’s tea is getting cold and I don’t need a telling off for taking too long to deliver it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

“You’d bloody better,” he warns, but they both know it’s an empty threat.

Not at all put out, she laughs again, and then stands on tiptoe to brush a quick kiss against his cheek. The show of affection, however brief, surprises him, but he’s not going to complain. Not in the slightest.

Back at the table there is continued silence from Thomas as he sips his black coffee and chews on one of the gooey, chocolatey treats Grace purchased for them all. The women chatter, and Grace effortlessly deflects the worst of her mother’s prying questions or sly comments. Before Boyd knows it, forty-five minutes has passed in good company without him realising. The drinks are gone, the pastries have been reduced to a handful of crumbs, and when Boyd glances at his watch he realises they need to make a move.

“We should to get going,” he notes, twisting his spine to shift the stiffness that has set in while he’s been sitting still in a too-upright chair. “The parking runs out in ten minutes.”

Iris sips the rest of her tea and nods. “And we need to go shopping.”

“Isn’t that what you were just doing?” Boyd prods, getting to his feet.

“For food,” retorts Iris. “I do have to eat, you know.”

“Which is why Grace turns up with your groceries every Thursday evening.”

“ _Most_ of my groceries. Big, bulky things I get when Thomas or Simon take me to the supermarket.”

Boyd wonders if the woman could be any more pedantic. Then, as he concentrates on lifting his coat from the back of his chair and sliding his arms into it, he almost misses what Iris says next.

“… get Sian’s shopping as well.”

“How is she?” asks Grace. “I must give her a call later.”

“Two broken legs and a concussion – she’s in a wheelchair for a while. Nasty great gash on her arm, too, from the window glass. Horrendous amount of stitches.”

Boyd’s ears prick up at the description of those injuries. He has no idea who Sian is, but hasn’t he just heard of a woman with two broken legs?

“Did they get the other driver?” Grace wants to know. 

“Drunk,” scowls Thomas, his first words in almost an hour. Eyes tightening, he looks more threatening now. “Not a scratch on him. Fled the scene. Dog got him. Bastard.” There’s an unpleasant tinge of aggression in his last word.

“Who’s Sian?”

“My daughter.” Thomas’ voice is harsh, his expression still dark. 

“My uncle was hit by a drunk driver when I was a little kid,” Boyd tells him, the half-forgotten memory resurfacing. “They’re absolute scum.”

“You can say that again,” scowls Iris, and the sudden shift in her demeanour is startling. Blue eyes flinty, posture rigid, knuckles tight on the strap of her handbag.

Curious, Boyd looks down at Grace but she gives the tiniest shake of her head as so he doesn’t push it. It takes longer than expected to make their way towards the exit; the café is still thickly crowded with hungry shoppers, the tables overflowing, bags of Christmas goodies littering the ground, and dozens of people standing around waiting to sit, queueing for the loos or pottering indecisively at the fully laden deli counter and cake display. Twice Boyd is forced to step back out of the way of frantic parents trying to corral their youngsters, and then he has to lunge to catch Grace when a chair is pushed backwards into her, knocking her clean off her feet as a very short and very fat man lurches upright.

Glowering, he snaps out an angry rebuke and then just as quickly forgets, focusing solely on Grace and making sure she is okay.

“I’m fine, Peter,” she murmurs against him as he holds her tightly. “Great reflexes you have there, thanks.” Her tone makes him preen for just a second, and then a toddler screeches with unholy volume and his patience finally snaps. Half a dozen long strides, and they are both outside in the fresh air again. Seconds later Iris and Thomas also emerge. 

Mother and daughter instantly drift together in that way only women ever seem to manage, their heads bowing together as they speak quickly and share heaven only knows what that they haven’t managed to get out in all the time they’ve been sitting inside chatting.

Women. He’ll never understand them.

But he’s a man in love, and therefore he is feeling unusually lenient.

“Peter…” His name is said so quietly that in the noise of the café door banging open and closed again behind them that Boyd almost misses it. He turns and looks at Thomas, unsure if it really was him that spoke. The look on the other man’s face convinces him it was.

“Yes?”

Thomas looks at him intently for long seconds, expression inscrutable, eyes opening wide this time, as if to take him in completely. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, but one Boyd doesn’t shy away from. Instead, he waits, both tolerant and curious. 

Finally, Thomas seems to either see something he was looking for, or arrive at some kind of internal terminus. He nods toward Grace. “She’s precious,” he imparts, gruffly, and then leaves it at that, offering his mother an arm.

“What do you think I am, old?” snaps Iris, a prickly edge to her as she stabs the ground with the walking stick she still requires. “I’m quite capable of walking by myself, thank you.”

Thomas shrugs, and then strides out into the cold, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his hair sticking out in disarray around his collar.

“Goodbye, Grace, darling. See you on Thursday. Bye, Handsome. Do feel free to join her if you wish. I’d never turn down the chance to see a fetching man in my kitchen.”

Watching them go, Boyd thinks about what just happened. Was it a threat? A warning? Simply an observation?

Whatever it was, it was disconcerting, he finally decides.

There’s nothing he can do about it, however, so he shoves his own hands into his pockets and steps out from under the shop awning into the first few droplets of renewed rain, more than ready to head home to the dry, peaceful warmth of his house and living room.

He looks at Grace, feels contentment at the happiness he can see in her. “Ready?”

She grins at him in a way that sparks hope for the remainder of the day. “More than, _Handsome_.”


	5. Chapter 5

The front door shuts behind them and Boyd breathes a long sigh of relief. It’s over. Thank God, it is over.

He may have to sit and wrap this lot, he may have to write out innumerable cards to people he doesn’t really care about, and he may lose his temper spectacularly throughout all of that, but the worst of it is over and he doesn’t have to stress about it now. She was right.

Well, of course she was.

Bloody woman!

And, he thinks, he might possibly, if he is _very_ nice to her, be able to persuade her to do the wrapping part for him. Not the cards, though, because her handwriting – as he so often enjoys telling her – is an illegible scrawl. But yes, possibly the wrapping part.

Ditching the bags at the bottom of the stairs, he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up.

It’s done.

He feels like he’s climbed a mountain. It’s ridiculous, of course, but what an ordeal. Screaming kids, frustrated parents, angry customers, harassed staff… He wonders how on earth some people seem to find shopping fun, and actively want to do it.

And that’s without lunch and the… unexpected… introduction.

The look in Thomas’ eyes as they parted…

Christ.

“I need a drink,” he declares, kicking off his shoes and using his foot to shove them in the direction of the wall.

“And I need you,” is the instant reply.

Startled, Boyd turns quickly and stares, caught off guard for once. And then, before he really has a chance to work out what’s happening, his back is against the wall and he’s being kissed. Kissed hotly and passionately, and with the kind of raw urgency that superheats his blood in seconds.

Fortunately, the shock is only a momentary thing, and then his brain catches up with nothing short of absolute glee. He has never been a man to require much persuasion when it comes to sex, and, accordingly, his hands find Grace’s waist without conscious thought, holding tight and pulling her flush with his body.

She’s warm and she fits perfectly against him, that’s the first thing that his mind registers about what is happening. The second thing is just how fiery her kiss is, and how agile her tongue is as it darts out and swipes over his, teasing his lower lip in the process.

The third thing is that his back is against the wall and she put him there.

Well, damn.

It’s such a turn on, her forthright approach. He can feel himself starting to harden already.

Her kisses are determined, riddled with heat and desire. Her hands are far from idle, questing over his chest, reaching up to run through his beard. Every ounce of her is concentrated and intent on her task, and it’s so bloody hot that he knows instantly that this is not going to last long, that this will be quick and hard and breathless and good. Very, very good.

Boyd turns his head, captures her fingertips between his lips, grins as she stills, as her eyes close and her head falls back. Reaching up he drags his nails across her palm, draws slow spirals there as he listens in satisfaction to the faint sound of pleasure that escapes her.

“Oh, Grace,” it’s a deep groan. One that escapes before he can stop it. Something to do with love and longing, a mix he can’t put into words. 

“Peter…” A flash of blue, of impish amusement.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accuses, staring down at her.

“Yes,” she smiles, and it’s intoxicating, that gentle curve of her lips. “Now, are you going to start an argument, or are you going to shut up and keep kissing me?”

“I,” he begins, but then she thieves the words from him, pushing him back against the wall and obliterating rational thought. Feel, don’t think.

It’s always the best way.

The first thing to go is her sweater, even as her hands venture under his, the pads of her fingers light She teases him endlessly, a torrent of impassioned kisses that leave him in a state of near intoxication, and before he knows it everything around him is becoming fuzzy, the only thing in focus is the very real and very intriguing woman who is somehow managing to both pin him in place _and_ wrap herself around him. Caught in the thorough assault on his senses, it’s mindboggling to him how she’s doing it. 

He could kiss her forever. It’s a truth that has struck him before, just as it strikes him again now, the one thought to swim clearly through his mind. He could kiss her forever and never get bored of it.

Grace pulls back, and that sudden space between them as he breathes deeply brings a little clarity with it. She’s got hold of the hem of his jumper and is trying to pull it up and over his head, but the height difference is making it difficult. Frustrated Grace amuses him greatly, and he revels in it for a moment. It’s like that tinge of erotic tension that has been simmering between them since he re-joined her in the café. Pleasant, but not indefinitely. 

He can fix that.

Smirking, he strips the offending item off for her, taking his shirt with it. Thoroughly enjoys the look in her eyes as she watches, full of anticipation.

“Not that I’m in any way, shape or form complaining,” he begins, unfastening his belt and shaking his hips so that he can step out of his jeans before she crowds right back against him, determinedly pushing him back into the wall with her body. Experimentally, he rolls his hips so she can feel exactly how little he’s protesting.

She kisses him again, fiercely, intensely. Her tongue darts into his mouth, searing his own like a branding iron. “But?”

“But what brought this on now?”

“Peter, do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve been in love with you for _years_ – a few months together isn’t going to burn the lust out of me.”

For once in his life, all the sly, clever retorts fail him. “Oh.”

She’s laughing at him. Somehow, though, despite the urgency of her touch, as her hand descends below his waist and rubs suggestively against the front of his boxers her tone is still even, as if she is simply partaking in a mundane, reasoned argument.

How the hell she’s doing it, he really doesn’t have a clue, not when his brain is starting to scramble to keep up with both her touch and her words.

It’s one of the things he adores about her, that endless mystery and fascination; every time he thinks he’s figured her out, she throws something new at him, just to keep him on his toes.

“I may be getting a little older, but you’re a very handsome man, I love you more than I could possibly put into words, and I’m incredibly horny. There really isn’t any more to it than that. Now, would you like to discuss this some more, or would you like to help me out of my clothes?”

Well. If he wasn’t hard already, he is now.

He likes the raw honesty. A lot.

“Christ,” he mutters, skimming his hands down her torso and hooking his fingers under the hem of her tee-shirt. Within seconds it joins the rapidly growing pile of clothes on the floor but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy kissing her, too busy feeling the heat of her body against his, too busy trying to get her out of her bra.

“I never get tired of seeing you naked,” he growls, hands inevitably going straight for the curves of her breasts, kneading the flesh and playing with her nipples.

“Good!” The tip of Grace’s tongue traces across her lower lip, her breath coming quick and heavy as she smirks at him, fire blazing through her.

Something inside him yanks at his heart, his lust-ridden brain. “You’re are unbelievably sexy, you know that?”

Tantalisingly rough hands clench in his hair, hold him frozen as he stares into that incredibly deep blue ocean of mystery and swirling, complicated emotion. He’s drowning, he knows; the air in his chest is stuck, his heart pounding, his skin a live wire. So much time wasted, so much pain that they could have been spared…

Grace blinks, shattering whatever spell she has been holding him under.

They’re here now, and if he has his way, that will never change.

Impatient and urgent, he drops a hand to her waist, fumbles with the button on her trousers, slips a hand inside her knickers. He doesn’t waste time now. Everything has turned fast and frantic.

Touch, tease, stroke, kiss, caress.

His blood is up, his heart is racing and it is sublime. It is everything he wants in this moment.

Except…

A stray thought flickers through the back of his mind, pushes forwards impatiently. He’s back in the café and Iris is laughing as Grace looks at him, a shared vision passing between them at her sly comeback to her mother’s teasing.

“The fire,” he mumbles, his breath ragged. “Candles, wine.”

Grace’s hand quests lower, her fingers curling tightly around his cock and beginning to stroke. He groans with longing. “We can do that later, if you want,” she dismisses. “Right now, I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I woke up and I’m not prepared to wait any longer.”

Her words hit him like a tonne of bricks.

“And you dragged me out shopping?” he demands, incredulous. Despite his tone, he still lowers his head, kisses her neck, trails his lips down to the spot where it meets her shoulder and teases the skin there with the very tip of his tongue.

The sound Grace makes goes straight to his groin, and he feels himself twitch impatiently. “It needed doing,” she gasps, “and…”

Boyd smirks to himself as this time words fail her, the argument trailing and weakening. Still, Grace is Grace, and therefore always determined.

“Now we have all the time in…”

She stops talking. He’s pretty sure she’s stopped thinking too, and that’s good. He doesn’t want her to think, just to feel. The hand that’s inside her trousers continues to torment, and he delights in the expression on her face, the sweet torture he knows he’s inflicting on her. He loves the feel of her, loves the way her eyes close in pleasure, her lower lip catching between her teeth as she fights to hold on to her equilibrium for a few long seconds before abandoning everything and letting sensation take over, ruling her body for the time being.

It’s fascinating, and incredibly erotic. He’s never wanted a woman more than he wants her. He thinks that even his wife didn’t capture his attention in quite the same way. Maybe that’s age and experience, maybe it’s a flaw of memory. Boyd doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. All he does care about is Grace and the way she makes him feel, the things he can do to her. The way there’s just something… magical… about how they are together.

It’s a stupid word, but it’s the best his love-addled brain can come up with.

She’s beyond thinking now, he can tell, so he gently eases her trousers and knickers down her legs for her, crouching down to free first one leg, and then the other. That blue gaze is firmly fixed on him again, and all he can see as he looks up and she looks down is speculation, intrigue and the fierce heat of need.

She wants him, more than anything.

Somehow, after so many years of stress and anger and grief, life is superb.

He can smell her now, the natural scent of her that seizes his attention and grips on, flooding through his senses to the most base, most masculine parts of his brain. Boyd leans forward, kisses her belly button softly. Ventures lower as she moans, his name falling into the air above him.

Abruptly, deliberately, he grips her hips and spins them both, putting her exactly where he was, firmly against the wall. And then he goes on the attack, putting all of himself into making her gasp and swear and call his name into the stillness of the hallway where it echoes around them.

Fingers clench in his hair, and the muscles in her legs tighten and begin to quiver.

“Peter…”

Her tone has changed, become more desperate, more pleading. He’s on his feet in a trice, lifting as she jumps and then her legs are around his waist, her arms twining around his neck, and her back is pressed firmly into the wall as their lips collide in equal parts passion and the desperate need to simple be _there_.

Skin against skin, it’s the best feeling in the world.

Grace rolls her hips, her invitation to him clear. “Come on,” she groans. “Stop making me wait.” Her lips find his neck, trace their way up and up until they reach his ear.

“Stop that,” he growls, yanking his head back. Grace crows with laughter and Boyd scowls at her. She knows damn well what that does to him. She’s grinning wickedly at him now, and the way she’s rubbing against him is nothing shy of blatantly suggestive.

It’s decision time.

“Hold on,” he orders, gathering her tighter against him and then taking long strides towards the stairs.

He makes it to the top step before the assault on his neck is renewed, clouding his thinking and dragging his mind away from the conscious thought needed to coordinate his limbs whilst navigating his path and carrying her as well. Boyd stumbles and staggers, but rights himself quickly.

“Jesus, Grace,” he chokes.

“What part of ‘I want you’ did you not understand?” she demands, impatience shining through. Her words are like an electric shock straight to his groin, and, despite his best intentions, the bedroom is just too far away.

Yeah, there’s not a cat’s chance in hell of him getting there, especially not when she’s looking at him like that.

Abruptly, and unceremoniously, Boyd pivots and with a low thud Grace is back up against the wall. He hears her gasp, feels the almost instant tightening of her legs around his waist, the movement of her torso as she rubs her breasts against his chest. A quick shift of his hips, a slight fumble between their bodies, and he’s there, slipping inside her as she hisses in pleasure.

“Happy now?” he asks, his gruff tone at odds with the gentle intimacy with which he kisses her before starting to move, his thrusts finding a steady rhythm.

“God, yes.”

Boyd feels her squeeze in counterpart, feels her nails rake across his shoulders, hears her whisper a litany of deeply erotic promises into his ear as her breath tickles his skin, rustles the strands of his hair.

He feels fingers glide over his scalp and then suddenly clench. His head is yanked backwards and her face fills his gaze, but before he can protest the rough treatment, her mouth is on his again, kissing him in a way that would make him forgive her anything. His rhythm is shattered and everything is now almost overwhelmingly intense; fast and frantic as they desperately push one another to their end goal, to that sweet, sweet nowhere place.

She’s there. He knows it, feels it a split second before she cries out, her voice choked and raw. It’s enough for him, too, and a few disjointed thrusts later the world splinters around him and his head collides with her shoulder as he slumps forward, trembling with a combination of the exertion and the pleasure running through him.

His chest is still heaving, his muscles are aching and there’s definitely sweat beading across his shoulders and down his back, but the highly agreeable fog of contentment he’s currently cocooned in pushes all that back as Boyd blinks and opens his eyes.

Pale skin, beautifully flushed. That’s what he sees, and what makes him smirk in satisfaction. That smirk only widens as he takes in the way Grace is clinging on to him, still swimming in the depths of haziness.

There’s a low, incomprehensible protest as he straightens that makes his lips twitch. “Either I move, or I risk dropping you,” he warns. “Take your pick, woman.”

He doesn’t get an answer, at least not verbally. Instead, Grace tucks her head into his shoulder and keeps her arms tightly looped around him.

Tremors run through Boyd’s thighs as they threaten to give way on him. It’s not a prospect his fierce masculine pride is pleased with. The bed, he decides. The bed would be an excellent place to head for right about now.

He makes it, just. A few minutes to lie down, a nice cuddle with her…

Grace slithers from his arms, wavers on her feet as he subsides down on the edge of the mattress facing her. Settling and standing a little more firmly, she studies him intently.

“Well,” he prods, and then yawns. “Was it worth it?”

“Worth what?”

“The wait.”

Utterly serene, she looks nothing like the woman who was so recently writhing wildly against his body, begging him to get her to that coveted sexual high.

The smile she gives him is so enigmatic that his attention immediately perks up, even if nothing else does. A little bit of rest, he tells himself, and then…

“It always is, Peter.”

Fuck…

Mentally, he starts calculating, but is rudely interrupted by laughter. A small, slim hand lands on his shoulder, pushes him backwards into the thick quilt.

“You wish,” she snorts. “Lie down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Boyd frowns, but he’s already starting to drift pleasantly towards semiconsciousness. “Where are you going?” It’s a mumble, and an indistinct one, he knows.

Still, she answers, though her voice is fading as she walks towards the en-suite. “The inglorious practicalities, lover boy.”

Rolling over, he grimaces, Boyd knows he does. It’s just so unromantic. Still, reality is reality, as he is well aware. And before long the bed dips, the covers rustle, and then that delightful, warm body is settling down beside his. 

He tries to speak, manages an indistinct rumble in the back of his throat before giving in and simply reaching for her, pulling until they are spooning comfortably and he can tuck his head against the back of her neck.

Grace sighs softly, relaxing against him, and, content once more, Boyd closes his eyes, succumbing to slumber. 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a whispery tickle of breath against his chest that eventually rouses Boyd from his doze. Pleasantly warm, and very comfortable, he blinks sleepily up at the pristine white ceiling and then frowns. There’s an indistinct line trailing away from the corner by the door, one he suspects was left there by an opportunist spider.

A slight snuffle against his skin pulls his mind from dark thoughts towards the octopod intruder. Grace is stirring, snuggling closer into his side and mumbling nonsense he can’t quite decipher.

The weight of her against him is very reassuring.

Easing onto his side, Boyd brings a hand up and slowly rubs it across her shoulder and down over her arm, caressing all he can reach to settle her, soothe her.

Smooth. Warm.

Those are the first things that run through his mind as he continues to touch, content to lie as he is.

She’s here, he thinks. In his bed. Naked. With him. Because she wants to be.

It’s still a little surreal.

He’s a man and sex is… important. But when all is said and done, moments like this are what he’s craved the most over last few dark, painful years.

That mutter again, under her breath. It’s almost a grumble, he thinks, as though she is dreaming something that’s annoying her. A frown is forming between her brows; it amuses him no end.

What doesn’t amuse him is the sudden, sharp kick that connects with his shin. Boyd yelps, and then promptly clamps his jaws together, scolding himself for the undignified squark.

“Thank you very much,” he tells his still-dreaming lover. Grace lets out something that is incredibly close to being a growl this time, and Boyd starts to grin. Whatever she’s dreaming, he can’t wait to hear about it. She’s clearly arguing with someone, if the fresh round of aggrieved muttering and the deepening scowl on her face are anything to go by.

But then she kicks out again and only just misses hitting him in a far more delicate place as her fist follows her foot into motion. Enough is enough, he decides, pushing her onto her back as he rolls over on top of her, pinning her in place.

“Wake up, Grace,” he commands, catching her arms to prevent any chance of an accidental facial injury he really doesn’t want to have to explain at work on Monday morning.

Her eyes fly open, whatever dream-induced retort she was about to make getting stuck in her throat as she stares up at him in hazy confusion. When she speaks, her voice is thick and muddled. “Peter?”

“You were assaulting me,” he tells her, tone and expression grave.

“Wha-?” It’s an effort not to laugh when she can’t get the word out, yawning before the syllable is fully formed.

“You were dreaming,” he explains, studying how sleepy she still looks, how ruffled she is. “And you kicked me.”

“Oh.”

She’s clearly still not with it, but that’s okay. It’s even just a little bit adorable. 

Her hair is a disaster, sticking up in all directions, but that’s also okay.

In fact, it’s bloody sexy.

“Christ,” Boyd sighs. He can feel his blood stirring again, leans down and nuzzles her neck, dropping tiny kisses here and there, using the very tip of his tongue to tease and then blowing gently to tickle her, returning the sensation that woke him. 

Still sluggish and half asleep, Grace tries to swat him away but her motion is slow and uncoordinated. He easily brushes it aside and lifts his head up, grinning down at the blurry eyes surveying him with a mixture of confusion, pleasure and annoyance.

“Stop it,” is the mumbled order.

“No.” His quick, assertive response takes both of them by surprise.

Oh, he thoroughly enjoys being contrary and argumentative, and watching her squirm as he mercilessly attacks her most sensitive spots is incredibly amusing, but on this occasion it’s more than that. She’s not the only one who is still gripped by the heady throes of insatiable lust.

Sadly for her, though, Grace is very ticklish. And Boyd has found that he loves to exploit that weakness. Probably far more often than he should, he supposes. On this occasion he simply takes advantage of her sleepy state and grips both of her wrists in one hand, and then sets about making her shriek and squirm beneath him as he forces her into full wakefulness by stimulating the nerves across as much of her body as he can reach.

Endless, strangled curses fill the air around him as he reduces her to breathlessness. It’s wicked of him, perhaps, but she will appreciate the outcome, he knows.

Muscles taut, her chest straining up off the bed, Grace glares daggers at him. “I’m going to kill you,” she threatens, though the delivery loses some of what he’s sure was intended ire as the best she can currently manage resembles a strangled wheeze.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, cheerfully, “because then I wouldn’t be able to do this to you…”

Abruptly, he changes tactics. Drags the back of his nails down the centre of her chest from the base of her neck, between her breasts and further down, over her ribs and on to her stomach, grinning at the sharp intake of breath the motion causes. Reaching between her legs, he turns his hand and employs just the tips of his fingers instead.

The curses are back. So are the wild eyes and the desperation.

It’s so damn hot.

Boyd smirks, and pushes her hard, building the sensation, the pressure and the need quickly, revelling in the tension he can feel in her body, the way her fingers clench into his shoulders as he releases her hands.

And then somehow her hand is on his cock and he falters. Already as hard as iron, he feels himself jerk as she grasps him, as she squeezes and slides her fist up and down, asserting her own authority in this frenzied tumble. Grace is a long, long way from submissive, and when he freezes as she teases the tip of cock with the lightest of pressures, he suddenly finds himself being shoved sharply, finds himself landing on his side and then being rolled onto his back as she sits up.

Head resting on the pillow, Boyd considers the interesting change of circumstances. Grace is straddling him, rubbing herself against him, using her nails to stir the nerves in his stomach, ribs, across his chest. She looks like a queen, imperious, intent and wholly committed to her cause. A thrill rushes through him; age and its inhibitions are a bitch, but the freedom he has found in her, the complete lack of reserve when they are in the moment…

Glorious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He feels her legs move, her hips tilt, and then that blissful sensation of slick heat and pressure is back.

“Fuuuuck…” he mumbles, reaching up and gripping her hips, pushing up against her until they are fully locked together.

“Look at me,” she commands, and his eyes fly open and find her. He hadn’t even realised they were closed.

“Tell me, Peter,” she orders, rocking slowly against him. Slow and steady. So slow that it is maddening, that he thinks he might scream.

“Tell you what?” he chokes

Mischief. Endless, amused mischief. That’s all he can see as she shrugs at him, says, “If you don’t know…”

Infuriating woman. There is no sense of hurry in the way she moves, no trace of her wanting to do something about the almost unbearable need building between them.

Her fingers are still gliding over his skin, still creating that hellishly good sensation that is somewhere between a whisper and a tickle. He’s fit to explode, and all she seems to want to do is torment him and smile at him in that serene, mildly amused way of hers, as though she is doing nothing more than calmly listening to him extrapolate on some wild theory of his at work.

She knows. She always bloody does, he thinks darkly.

He will never outdo her in the patience stakes.

Mostly, he’s okay with that.

Not today.

Inadvertently, as she watches him fighting with himself, she catches a nail against the edge of old, silvery scar tissue. It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is so different, so abrupt, that it shatters something in him.

With a guttural growl, Boyd seizes her and flexes, all but throws her onto her back and lets his weight sink down on top of her, as he grips her wrists and pins them above her head. It breaks the intimate connection between them, but that’s okay for the moment.

“Stop tickling me,” he rumbles, effecting a menacing tone.

“Or what?”

“Oh, shut up, Grace,” he grumbles, his brain failing to supply him with a suitable response.

It’s a stupid thing to say, it really is. “Make me,” she challenges, pressing her shoulders back into the mattress. It’s a deliberate motion, one that automatically makes him look down at her breasts.

Boyd wants to tell her that she’s infuriating, but he’s just a man and she’s woman. A woman with incredible cleavage. Cleavage that he’s now buried in, one hand grasping and feeling and squeezing while his mouth sucks and licks and kisses.

The long, low moan he hears is quite gratifying to his ego; more so is the cry of intense pleasure he elicits as he shifts position and guides his cock back inside her again.

Her legs are tangled with his in an instant, her body straining up to meet his. Again, it is quick and wild and fuelled by the desperate passion and need of two people far too used to ignoring and denying the magnetic spark between them.

This time Boyd comes first, roaring in ecstasy as his body is flooded with pleasure. He feels those wicked fingers clench into his shoulder muscles as Grace moves desperately against him, frantic and impatient. It takes everything in him to clear his head enough to keep thrusting, to find the dexterity to grab her breast and play with the nipple; somehow he manages, and the roughness of his uncoordinated movement is enough to reward him with a choked scream and the sharp prickle of nails biting deep as she hits her own peak.

Collapsed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Boyd has no sense of what belongs to him and what belongs to her. All he knows is that he’s intensely happy and he doesn’t give a damn about anything else.

* * *

Grace is missing when Boyd opens his eyes and blinks sleepily into the fading afternoon light. He rolls over, half expecting to find her on the wrong side of the bed, but she’s not there. Disgruntled, he raises his head and listens, his ears picking up a soft humming emanating from the en-suite.

She hasn’t gone far then. That’s okay, he decides, subsiding back into the pillows. He can live with that. She will be back soon, and when she is –

A clatter, quickly followed by a short, sharp curse, makes him look up again. He can’t see her, of course, so instinct makes him sit up and swing his legs off the bed.

For a woman who always appears to be well put together and in control, she can be such a klutz sometimes. Mainly when she’s tired or distracted, he’s noticed. For the most part, it’s funny, but occasionally there have been incidents where he’s ended up shouting, she’s ended up crying, or he has fallen victim to his overly protective streak.

When he pushes the already ajar door wide open and takes a step inside, Grace turns away from the sink towards him as he calls her name and he begins to laugh.

“What have you done to yourself?” he splutters, his eyes roving up and down her body. Purple goo is splattered across her chest and shoulders. A thick streak of it runs up her neck and there are droplets on her face and across the bridge of her nose.

“I bought a new bottle of shower gel,” sighs Grace, exasperated. “I opened it to give it a sniff and then dropped it in the sink.”

Still laughing, he advances on her, hands on his hips as he shakes his head for effect. “What am I going to do with you, hm?”

Grace shrugs, and watches quietly as he reaches out, traces a fingertip through the purple mess and trails it across an untouched area of skin. It’s thick, gloopy stuff and it clings to her. Curious, Boyd starts to draw patterns, at first fascinated by the smoothness of the gel on her skin, then becoming intent on turning the minor disaster into an artistic masterpiece.

“Are you having fun?” asks Grace, the sort of mild tolerance he is _far_ too used to hearing layered in her tone.

“Most definitely,” he assures her solemnly, his concentration not wavering in the slightest.

“You’re tickling me.” Again, tolerant. Patient.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, drawing a swirl over her shoulder and using a little more pressure as he touches her. “This is really…”

“Odd?” suggests Grace.

Boyd shakes his head, “I was going to say peculiar.” He moves his finger across her collarbone, finds a thick globlet on her other shoulder. When he touches it and lifts his hand, he finds it sticks to his skin, allows him to make a series of dots around the original mark, radiating out in lines.

“This stuff smells like lavender,” he remarks, sniffing his fingers briefly, before returning to his self-imposed task.

“It’s supposed to. That’s why I picked it. Lavender is meant to be relaxing.”

“Grace, I can assure you, I am _very_ relaxed right now.”

“Peter…”

There’s a slight hitch in her tone that catches his attention, makes him look up from his engrossing task. “Mm?”

“It’s a little chilly in here.”

Her skin is pebbled with goosebumps, and her nipples are standing up in protest.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he shrugs, “but now you mention it…”

This time he uses his thumb, swiping it through a thick streak of purple goo and then swirling it around on her breasts. 

“Peter…” A second, slightly firmer use of his name. Instinct – and experience – tell him it’s time to start paying attention.

“I’m sure I could warm you up,” he tells her, trying to affect an earnest expression.

Her unladylike snort shatters his illusions. “You wish!”

“I do,” he agrees, finally returning his gaze to her face and smiling softly at her. Lowering his head, he brushes his lips against hers. “But when you’re standing there naked and dishevelled how can you possibly blame me?”

“You’re incorrigible!”

Crowding her backwards against the sink, Boyd smirks and finds an unmarked section of her collarbone. Kisses her there and teases the skin with his tongue before sucking lightly. His free hand finds the nearest breast and he grazes his palm across it, cups the flesh and kneads it gently. The sound that escapes his lover is a half sigh, half moan, and he smirks in satisfaction.

Point proven, he nods in agreement. “I am,” he agrees with her. “But so are you.”

“That’s a fair point,” Grace concedes, ducking under his arm and breaking free from his grasp. Opening the shower door, she reaches inside and turns on the water. “Come on,” she invites. “Come and wash my back for me.”

* * *

Dried and dressed in a very old but very comfortable pair of jeans and a soft, long-sleeved shirt that he knows Grace loves, Boyd is just sliding his foot into one of his slippers and hunting for the other when his mobile phone rings loudly downstairs in the hallway. A few long strides and he’s at the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time without even looking as he heads down, snatching the offending device up just before it begins its last ring.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Handsome One. Finally!”

“Iris?” Confused, Boyd starts back up the stairs in search of the missing slipper.

“Of course! Who else would it be?” There’s a level of impatience in that voice with which he is becoming entirely too familiar.

Boyd scratches his head, wonders if he’s missed something somewhere. “How did you get my phone number?”

“I called your unit. Spoke to a very grumpy young man who could do with a few lessons in how to answer a telephone with a bit of common courtesy,” is the prompt, slightly miffed reply. 

“Spencer,” sighs Boyd, running a hand through the hair he’s just inadvertently mussed. Spencer who was less that pleased about Saturday afternoon overtime to clear some of his overflowing workload.

“Quite. I told him I was your mother. That I’d misplaced your mobile number and you weren’t answering your home phone.”

“My mother’s been dead for nearly a decade.” Boyd is astounded at her audacity.

“Well, the grumpy one doesn’t know that, does he?”

For a moment Boyd is simply lost for words. Eventually he recovers himself enough to ask, “What do you want, Iris?”

“There you go as well,” she sniffs. “Just as bad as the other one. ‘What can I do for you’ would be far more polite.”

“What can I do for you, Iris?” Boyd asks, wearily as he reaches the bedroom again.

“My daughter,” is the prompt reply. Momentary silence stretches between them. Then, “I mean,” splutters the voice at the other end of the line. “What I should have said is…”

The slip up is so uncharacteristic and so comical that Boyd has no hope of conquering the uproarious laughter building up in his chest.

Damp, tousled and curious, Grace wanders barefoot into the room, still wrapped in her towel.

“Peter, I,” begins Iris, clearly entirely unaccustomed to being wrongfooted.

Grinning evilly to himself, Boyd tells her, “I just did. Twice, in fact.” Dropping the phone into Grace’s hand he takes the time to kiss her lingeringly, before heading back to the door. It’s time for some more coffee. 

“Who is it?” she asks him, confused.

“Your mother,” he grins, as he saunters out.


End file.
